


Salt and Wicked Sweet

by BlindSwandive



Category: Colbert Report RPF, Daily Show RPF, Fake News, Fake News RPF
Genre: Body Hair, Breakfast in Bed, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Fluffy bondage if that's a thing, Happy birthday here's some sex, Honey, Honeydew melon - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light Bondage, M/M, Rimming, The great melon battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 10:18:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9603659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive
Summary: This was a response to what looked like a total lack of rimming in the TDS/TCR slash community at the time of writing (2006) and in response to a prompt for honey on Jon's ass (and the need to clarify for all and sundry that honey and body hair have a dangerous relationship). There is utterly fluffy bondage, and references to the great melon battle (Stephen is an adamant believer in honeydew's superiority; Jon in cantaloupe's) and to Jon Stewart's famously fuzzy butt.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hoping to slowly move all my fic to AO3 for posterity; this one was written in honor of Jon Stewart's birthday in 2006.
> 
> I had never seen rimming written at the time, so this was cut from whole cloth. Kind of exciting from a writing standpoint.
> 
> Do not try this at home. If you do, make sure you get every trace of honey off with your mouth or other suitable implement, because honey that dries on moving skin--or thick honey that gets into any kind of hair at all--hurts like a bitch. But it is delicious, so. There you go.
> 
> Feedback is love. <3

"You know, when you offered me breakfast in bed, I kind of thought you meant there'd be breakfast involved."  
  
"There will be. Did I ever say you'd be the one eating?"  
  
"No, but funnily enough, I had assumed so. . . You know, since it's my birthday, and you said there'd be breakfast."  
  
"If you're going to pout about it and be grumpy, I can go get you some toast, instead, but I promise this would be much more fun."  
  
"Is this your idea of 'fun'? Stephen, I wake up tied down to the bed, lying on my _empty_ stomach, with a blindfold on, when you told me I'd be getting breakfast. I haven't even had any coffee yet. If I go too much longer without caffeine, I am not going to be held responsible for my actions."  
  
"So you see the wisdom in my tying you down."  
  
"I--" Jon floundered, sighed, and dropped his face back to the mattress. There could be no winning, here--at best, he could avoid a headache. At least the room was warm. "I don't know, Stephen. It's too early for me to be expected to follow your logic. Without having had breakfast, anyway." He sighed, again, grumpily nuzzling his cheek against the sheets. "I'm going to collapse into jelly, or rust, or--. . . are these leather?" Stephen snorted at him as he tugged experimentally at the cuff on his left wrist, sleepily fascinated, twisting his hand to feel the friction against his skin.  
  
"Damn, boy went all _out._ "  
  
"Happy birthday!" Stephen whispered gleefully, from what was suddenly very near, and Jon could practically smell the smug, teasing grin on his face. It was strange, he reflected, that it smelled kind of dark and sweet. Kind of like honey.  
  
At that realization, Jon groaned. ". . . Coffee, Stephen. _Coffee._ I beg you. I am so tired that I'm smelling your facial expressions, and unless you hotboxed this place while I was out, that should not be happening."  
  
"Don't be silly, Jon, you'd be able to smell the sweet ganja if I had." There was a reassuring pat on his shoulder. "You know that better than I do."  
  
"True enough," he grudgingly agreed, wondering what kind of expression Stephen would have to be wearing for him to dream up some sativa. It'd have to be pretty fucking beatific, he decided, and he smiled, in spite of himself.  
  
"Hey, that's more like it. Keep that up, birthday boy, and you'll get a treat." Stephen was moving around the room, now, doing who knew what, and Jon decided to at least attempt to stay awake and enjoy the effort that had clearly gone into this morning.  
  
"This better be good," he yawned, anyway, because no amount of effort forgives coffee deprivation.  
  
But, after just a few more moments of rustling and shuffling, the room fell quiet. Very quiet. And stayed that way long enough for Jon to start to wonder, and start to shift.  
  
He briefly wished he _would_ fall back to sleep, just to spite Stephen and his silence, but he found himself distressingly unable, now that it was actually quiet enough that he might manage it. "All right," he thought, "I give." He drummed his fingers on the mattress. He wiggled his toes. He muttered a curse at the mattress.  
  
Aloud, he finally called "Stephen?" softly. There was no response.  
  
His nerves were making him feel a hell of a lot more wakeful as he strained to hear, listened for any evidence of another body in the room. He kicked lightly against a cuff with his foot, in irritation, imagining it would make an impression, and felt silly for thinking so, afterwards. The image he had of himself, then, spread-eagle, on his face, kicking ineffectually, was just ridiculous enough to be humbling.  
  
He sighed, and tried opening his eyes against the dark fabric around his head, but there was no hint, no seam of light, and he wasn't even sure he could hear Stephen breathing, though he was sure he hadn't left the room, and in fact, he was sure Stephen was close, and feeling. . . well, something, anyway. Something a little tart and cool and sweet that he couldn't place. He gave himself over to imagining what sort of expression could cause that scent he was getting--maybe something sarcastic, something maddening and a little impersonal, one of those high-racheted eyebrow looks--when he was startled by a cold wetness touching his lower lip.  
  
He jumped as well as he could, tied down this way, and it was gone. When he licked his lips he came up sweet. And tart.  
  
He felt a little foolish. Of course he couldn't smell the smirk Stephen was wearing. But he was grateful to have proof he was near, at least.  
  
"Stephen," he pleaded, softer than before, reluctant to disturb the renewed stillness. How could the man be so damn quiet?  
  
But Stephen said nothing, and waited just long enough before touching him again that it made him jolt a second time. Stephen trailed the cold, sweet, firm-fleshed thing into the small of Jon's back, and Jon quivered. _Quivered._  
  
"Stephen," he gasped, eyes wide behind the blindfold, "What. . ."  
  
"Shh." Stephen's weight came down behind him, on the bed, almost close enough to touch. His warmth radiated down into Jon's skin from the nearness, and Jon closed his eyes tightly. Stephen's heat made the piece of--fruit? It had to be--feel even colder on his flesh, and chasing it, Stephen's tongue boiled. Jon jerked against the hard, smooth leather of the cuffs, as Stephen mouthed at skin, his cock nudging at the mattress. Teeth scraped over his back, as his captor swallowed up the fruit, before licking every last trace of the juice back up.  
  
So. This was what he meant by breakfast.  
  
Jon was paralyzed, and at least marginally more conscious. He forgot every protest he'd made, as his skin sang and prickled. When another piece of the fruit traced cold between his shoulders, and was pursued again by that hot tongue, he gave over and allowed himself a writhe. What use were pride and crankiness in the face of being turned into a breakfast platter? Or into breakfast?  
  
Stephen trailed a third piece of fruit down his neck, then, along his shoulder, and he sighed under the following tongue. His nerves were dancing, but he felt strangely relaxed, and when the next tumble of cold fruit hit the small of his back--several pieces, at least--he twitched, but he wasn't startled, now. When the cool run of juice escaped down his left side (even in sleep he slouched), he smiled into the sheets.  
  
"Oh, no," Stephen murmured (and this smile was auditory, not olfactory), "that could stain the sheets. . . " Not willing to allow that to happen, apparently, he collected the juice with his tongue and teeth, suckling, scraping up Jon's side. Jon twitched, again, but found himself tense all over and laughing. It was like that moment in being tickled when it shifted from an affront to a blessing, from discomfort and pain to sweeter tortures.  
  
Jon had hated being tickled, until Stephen had tied him down the first time. Had tied him down and run his fingertips softly, maddeningly, through the copious fur along the backs of his thighs, up over his fuzzy ass and down into his spine. It was amazing, the aversions that could be cured by the impossibility of escape. And by adding sex, of course.  
  
Looking back on the morning, later, he would decide that that had been part of what Stephen was up to, here. Because after the cold tongs of the fork scraped up his side and pierced a piece of the fruit, he smelled the sweet-tart-sarcastic scent again under his nose, and lunged for the teasing, taunting, dripping bite of--honeydew.  
  
Honeydew. On _his_ birthday. That bitch.  
  
But after having it trace his lower lip, escape his tongue, and finally float into his open mouth ("Patience. . . Hold still and open wide. . ." Stephen had purred), it was as sweet and beautiful from thrill and victory as any of its sister melons were by nature.  
  
He almost immediately resented it. But not until he had moaned, swallowing the bite.  
  
Stephen didn't let the resentment ferment--immediately, he had descended once more into Jon's back, and, with what Jon was sure was only a feigned inability to quite catch the bite he wanted, a piece of the melon was dragged back onto his tailbone. As Stephen bit into it, juice broke from his tongue to slip down along Jon's cleft. Freezing in his now persistent writhe, Jon hoped--prayed--Stephen would chase that, too.  
  
Stephen did not disappoint. But he didn't stick around, either.  
  
Faster than Jon could sigh, Stephen was tonguing another piece of melon up, up to the nape of Jon's neck, and after a bite, he was nuzzling into each of Jon's shoulders, licking up nectar like some loving beast. And Jon felt loved.  
  
Two more bites, three, and just as Jon was remembering his own hunger, he felt fingers plucking at his flesh. Stephen had dispensed with the fork, to feed him, this time, and when fingertips touched Jon's tongue, he nipped them, swallowed at them basely. _Then_ he remembered it was honeydew. _Then_ he thought to bite the hand that fed him. But only a little.  
  
When the hand receded, he ventured a bit of ingratitude with what he could find of his voice. "Bitch. . . You couldn't have gone for cantaloupe? For me?" He slurred a bit; he felt drugged on sugar and sensation, and unsure of himself in the dark. He was sure he was beaming like an idiot, but he didn't care.  
  
"Picky, picky."  
  
"Well. . ."  
  
Stephen was straddling his hips, now (every bit as naked as Jon), and tonguing another piece of fruit up onto the plateau of one of Jon's shoulderblades. Jon hissed and sighed when the kiss and teeth sucked at his shoulder.  
  
"What, is it not sweet enough?" Stephen asked softly, feeding another bite onto Jon's tongue, and waiting for him to lick his fingers clean. Jon nodded dumbly, trying to draw Stephen's fingers back into his mouth by sheer will. Not as sweet. Something like that. Sure.  
  
Stephen lifted off of Jon with an enviable ease, leaving a pitiable chill. "I'll see what I can do about that."  
  
In keeping with his stellar powers of deciphering the world, this morning, Jon wondered where Stephen thought he'd got the power to transubstantiate honeydew into cantaloupe. He'd just chalked it up to the perverse influence of Catholicism when the dark, sweet smell struck him again.  
  
"Don't even say it," he silently scolded himself. When the honey-coated thumb breached his lips, he swirled his tongue around it and suckled it desperately. And when he closed his mouth on a piece of honey-dipped honeydew, he told himself he'd known it was coming.  
  
It was a strange kind of heaven.  
  
It still wasn't cantaloupe. But there was something about Stephen's fingers and honey coming together in salt and wicked sweet that more than made up for that. He wondered what Stephen would taste like wearing caramel, and vowed to find out sometime. Maybe on Stephen's birthday.  
  
"S'it good?"  
  
Stephen's voice was low and thick and soft. It rippled down his spine like warm water. Or honey.  
  
. . . It was probably honey. Jon sighed an "Mmn" in response as Stephen began tracing melon up through the streak of honey now sinking between his shoulderblades.  
  
"I'm going to try it, too," Stephen murmured, and Jon thought his bones had melted. He curled his fingers at the little wet moan of appreciation that seeped out of Stephen when he made good on his promise. For a moment, Stephen's face was in his hair, and he was floating in strange bliss.  
  
"Want more?" was barely audible, but Jon nodded. After a small cough, a little clearer came, "Ask."  
  
". . .Ask? Oh. . ." Right. He remembered this one. He bit back against a smile, and struggled for a verb. "Can I--nm, _may_ I have more?"  
  
"More. . .?" Stephen's voice was strained, too.  
  
". . .of your fruit. With honey. Um, with honey on it. Please." A pause. "To eat. From your fingers. So I can lick them."  
  
". . .Would my mouth do?"  
  
" _Fuck_ yes."  
  
And it seemed like warm honey was everywhere, heavy on his skin, cool and wet cutting through it. He had only to open his mouth for Stephen's to press to it, to fill it with tongue and sweet and fruit from his own flesh. They bit one another, but never too hard. They licked at one another's mouths. Jon muttered "Please" and "please," again, whenever his mouth was empty. He felt like he was devolving, dissolving. He was wretched and blissful.  
  
But all at once his tongue was abandoned; he opened his mouth, and nothing came to it. Stephen's was busy laving his back clean.  
  
Which seemed strange, when he followed it by drizzling more honey onto Jon's body.  
  
To be fair, he was focusing much further south, now. Reflexively, Jon tried to look over his shoulder, to see what patterns Stephen had drawn on his ass, but he could only tell by feel that it was pooling a bit at the base of his tailbone. And when Stephen descended on him, he seemed to lick everything _but_ that spot, every which way but center. His tongue pressed every other surface between the coasts of Jon's hips with the persistence of a cat grooming its young, dissolving away the thick sweetness from him until nothing was left but flesh, tingling and warm.  
  
When Stephen finally turned his attention to the valley dividing the nation, Jon gave into a grin that he stifled in the mattress. His teeth had found purchase on the sheets after much desperate mouthing, his fingers on the ties bridging the rings of his cuffs to the metal frame under the bed, and he'd finally freed his cock from the unfortunate angle it had been trapped at. He'd even mostly refrained from humping the mattress during the tongue bath. But that edgy stillness came over him again as he felt Stephen's tongue dip through the small pool of honey, flick at the vertebra, tickle at the skin there. He could imagine Stephen's tongue as it curled back up and away from him, pointing triangular in its tension, trailing honey between them like amber threads promising to sew them together most intimately. And that was pretty fucking exciting. "Plunge," he urged silently, begged, " _plunge._ "  
  
And Stephen did not disappoint. He plunged.  
  
It was like being _loved._ Jon had never quite been able to express how; the best words he'd come up with so far had been the flattering "like we were dogs," so he'd refrained from sharing, no matter how appropriate an ass-licking metaphor it might be, but there was some kind of perfect intimacy in it, like they were tangled beasts, like they were nothing. It felt generous and open and raw. He felt vulnerable. He felt safe.  
  
Stephen's tongue stroked him, caressed him there, swirling over and into. It dipped to tickle and tug at the cool skin of his balls, rose to adore the low base of his spine, and went the length between them, dividing and joining him at once. Stephen laved him until he was naked again, pinker and clean. And when Stephen's tongue left its stroking and pointed, pressed into him, _through_ him, he felt like his nerves were splitting open, doing some ridiculous shimmering dance. _Then_ he rutted at the mattress. And when Stephen's hand crawled under him, gripped him, he rutted through that.  
  
When he collapsed out of the bowstring tension he hadn't realized he'd been holding himself in, the strangled cat noise he made sounded distant. Stephen would razz him about it later, but that didn't matter with the tongue slipping away from him and a last kiss on his spine. His ears and skin were buzzing too loudly for him to too much miss Stephen's body as he disappeared a moment into the bathroom, but when he came back and mashed Jon's body into the bed with his own, Jon realized how much colder he'd been without him. He grunted and wriggled to get comfortable, thrilling to the warmth of Stephen's body.  
  
He caught "Happy birthday. . ." before his bones collapsed into mush and his brain faded out, but he passed out smiling. When he woke up, again, it was to the smell of very strong coffee, and the feel of Stephen nestled up against his chest, wrapped in his (now free) arms.  
  
Stephen tried to ask if he was awake, then. So he wrapped his legs around him and wrestled him closer, biting his shoulder in the most affectionate way he could manage.  
  
"Awake, then."  
  
"It's going to be cantaloupe and caramel on your birthday, you do realize this. . ."  
  
This grin he could feel through the back of Stephen's head. "Yeah. If you wake up before I do."


End file.
